BANG!
The echo of the gunshot rang in my ears. I stood frozen, watching Uncle Ben fall to the ground, bleeding.
I snapped out of it when I saw the thief running off, clutching his injured hand. I chased after him and kicked him square in the back. He hit the ground hard, rolling over, and I jumped on top of him without thinking.
I started punching him — over and over again. Blow after blow. The guy wasn't even moving anymore, but I couldn't stop.
"That's enough, kid! He's unconscious!" yelled a cop, grabbing my right arm.
Another officer shoved me back. "Let him go, son, you're gonna kill him!"
They pulled me away, and only then did I see what I'd done. The thief was lying on the pavement, barely breathing.
I stared at my bloodied hands. It wasn't the first time I'd nearly killed a man — first it was Killgrave, and now this guy.
The older officer walked a few steps ahead, glanced at Ben lying a few meters away, and shouted into his radio, "We need an ambulance! Right now! Civilian with a gunshot wound — conscious but losing blood!"
For the moment, I tried to push aside what I'd done and ran to Ben.
Peter was already there, on his knees, crying as he held his uncle's hand.
"Please, please don't fall asleep, okay?" he begged through tears. "Hold on, Uncle Ben, help's coming, you hear me? You have to hold on!"
Another officer came up to me and spoke firmly, "Can you tell me your name? We'll need your statement soon."
"Damon… Damon Blake," I said. I sat down on the curb, trembling, my eyes fixed on Uncle Ben.
The officer jotted it down, keeping an eye on me. "It's okay, son. Breathe. Was that the shooter?"
I nodded, still shaking. "Yeah. I saw him. He was about to run, but I stopped him."
The officer crouched beside me, his voice softer. "You did the right thing, Damon. You stopped the gunman."
I didn't answer. I just stared at my hands — still covered in blood. Peter kept crying, clinging to his uncle's hand.
And I'd never felt more helpless in my life.
The waiting room was silent. Peter sat across from me, eyes lost on the floor. His clothes were stained with dried blood, his hands trembling, and he hadn't said a word since we got there.
"Peter!" It was Aunt May. She ran in, eyes red from crying. The moment she saw him, she wrapped him in her arms.
It took Peter a moment to react, but then he hugged her back and broke down completely. "I'm so sorry, Aunt May, I'm so sorry…" he murmured between sobs.
"No, honey, don't say that," she whispered. "It's not your fault, you hear me? Everything's going to be okay, everything's going to be okay." Her body trembled as she held him, both of them crying.
Time moved painfully slow until the clock struck midnight. Finally, the doctor came out.
"Parker family," he said calmly, "Mr. Ben is stable. The bullet didn't hit any vital organs. He's going to live."
May covered her mouth with both hands and began to cry — this time out of relief. Peter hugged her again, burying his face in her shoulder.
The doctor continued, "He will, however, need a cane for a while. Nothing permanent, but he should avoid strain."
May nodded through tears, murmuring, "Thank you, doctor," as she clung to Peter's arm.
I watched from a distance and sighed, leaning back in my seat. Finally, I felt calm again — Uncle Ben was still alive.
The next morning, Harry and I were in Peter's room. Uncle Ben was stable, but Peter was a mess.
Harry tried to break the silence. "Your aunt stayed at the hospital, right?"
Peter nodded without looking up. "Yeah, she didn't want to leave him alone."
A few seconds passed before he spoke again, voice trembling.
"Damon," he murmured, "where's the dojo where you train?"
I looked at him, confused. "My dojo? Why?"
Peter took a deep breath, his hands clenched tight. "I want to enroll. I want to learn how to fight."
Harry frowned, worried. "Pete, that's not going to change what happened. It wasn't your fault, okay? You just wanted to go to the library."
Peter looked up — his eyes were glassy. "No, Harry," he said softly, "you don't get it. I just don't ever want to feel weak again."
I looked at him for a moment, realizing he wouldn't back down. I sighed. "I can talk to my sensei."
Peter nodded slowly. "Thanks… really."
Days went by quickly, but something in Peter had changed. Ever since he joined the dojo, he trained with an intensity that would've been admirable — if it weren't fueled by anger. During sparring, he didn't control his strength; more than once, the sensei had to stop him before he hurt someone.
School wasn't any better. Peter would pack his stuff quickly, avoiding eye contact with anyone.
A few feet away, Flash approached — surprisingly serious for once.
"Hey, Parker," Flash said.
"Not today, Flash," Peter muttered, shoving more books into his locker.
Flash sighed and, in a clumsy attempt at kindness, patted his shoulder.
Big mistake.
In an instant, Peter grabbed him by the shirt and slammed him against the lockers with force. The crash echoed down the hallway, making everyone turn.
Flash raised his hands, not even trying to fight back. "You feel better now?" he said shakily. "I heard about your uncle. I just wanted to say… I'm sorry."
Peter's face hardened. He released him without a word, grabbed his backpack, and walked away.
At the end of the hallway, Gwen was waiting. "Peter…" she whispered, hugging him tightly.
For a brief moment, he relaxed in her arms — but seconds later, Peter gently pulled away and kept walking.
That same night, I put on my suit. I knew Peter wouldn't stay in bed — he'd go after the robber. Police investigations had revealed that the criminal had an accomplice.
I knew it was Flint Marko — the future Sandman.
It wasn't hard to find Peter. I spotted him on a rooftop, wearing a red-and-blue suit that looked horribly stitched together.
I followed him from the shadows, leaping from roof to roof so he wouldn't notice me. He didn't take long to reach an abandoned house — I figured that's where Flint was hiding.
When I went inside, I heard shouting. I crept closer and saw Peter fighting Flint. Peter, though inexperienced, had incredible strength. Flint, on the other hand, had more street-fighting experience.
But in the end, Peter won and had him cornered against a large window. "Did you know an innocent man almost died because of your partner!?"
Flint wiped blood from his mouth. "I… I'm sorry. I didn't know it would turn out like this." He slowly backed away as Peter stepped closer. "My daughter's dying. I needed the money."
Peter froze at those words.
"I'm not asking for forgiveness… just for you to understand." Outside, the sound of sirens grew louder. Flint panicked and stepped back — but his foot slipped on a loose pipe.
He was about to fall through the window. I caught him just in time before he went over the edge — thankfully, he wasn't hurt.
Flint clutched his chest, terrified. He'd almost died right there.
"Go," I told him, looking him in the eye. "Find real work. You never know — a miracle might come when you least expect it. Now go, before the cops get here."
Flint hesitated, then nodded. Without another word, he ran toward the back exit. Before disappearing, he whispered one last word: "Thanks."
Peter stared at me. The police were breaking into the building — footsteps echoed up the stairs. We had to move.
"Come on," I said. "They'll find you if you stay."
We slipped out through a fire escape to the roof. The night air hit our faces as we moved across rooftops to get farther away. After a couple of minutes, we stopped on top of a green house.
"Who are you?" Peter asked, a bit out of breath.
"My name's Vorn."
"Vorn? What kind of cosplay is that?" he asked, eyeing my suit.
"I'm a vigilante. I go out at night and protect those who need it."
"Like… a superhero? Why do you do this?"
"Because I have the power to do it. You're special too, aren't you? I saw you swinging — so I followed you, and, well, here we are." I stepped closer. "You've got something special in you — something that can make a real difference."
"I… don't know. Doesn't it scare you? That people might find out who you are? That one day you might not come back?"
"It does. But people out there live with fear every day. And the police can't be everywhere at once. That's why I go out every night — you'd be surprised how often people are in danger."
"Still…" Peter hesitated. "I'm not sure I want to be one."
"You'll know in time — whether you want to or not."
Just then, an explosion boomed nearby — a plume of smoke rose from a nearby building.
"I gotta go, Pajama Boy," I said, and without another word, ran toward the source of the blast.